


In Search of Better Angels

by Deannie



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Community: mag7daybook, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 15:03:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2114382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deannie/pseuds/Deannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damn it, doing as ordered was what got him into this in the first place. If he’d just refused to follow orders at Miller’s Point twelve years ago, he’d’ve been shot in the back by his own men and wouldn’t’ve had to worry about Larabee finishing the job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Search of Better Angels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JoJo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoJo/gifts).



> Written for JoJo for the Mag7daybook Summer Stockings. I hope she likes it!

Ezra Standish was still shaking.

Not from the gun fight or even—this time—the echo of the cannon and the feel of that iron under his hands as he aimed it again after so many years. No, Ezra Standish still shook from a feeling he promised himself he’d never feel again: Shame.

He watched the men around him set up camp, trying to figure out exactly why Larabee hadn’t just shot him on the spot. _He_ would have. And even more perplexing, Larabee hadn’t told anyone else of his very founded suspicions that Ezra had run out on them all.

Left them for cannon fodder…

What was Larabee playing at? Since they’d sent Anderson to, he hoped, his fiery and damned reward, Larabee had been… Cordial? Pleasant? Decidedly non-homicidal?

It was disconcerting.

Ezra was still alive, and hadn’t had a confrontation with the man yet. They’d spent four days at the village, repairing the damage, healing the living, burying the dead….

He stilled his hand as it shook where he was loosening Chaucer’s cinch.

”Damn it,” he whispered.

”You all right there, pard?”

Vin Tanner’s quiet concern had him whipping his head up to look over Chaucer’s back at the young man. Tanner was a story, wasn’t he? A white man who’d lived among the Indians, hunted buffalo, hunted men—men like Ezra, probably. And now a wanted man himself, though for a crime he didn’t commit.

”Fine, Mr. Tanner,” he answered blithely. “Just fine.” He looked around him in practiced disdain. “Though why Mr. Larabee felt the need to leave the accommodations of the village for a cold night out in the desert, I’m sure I don’t know.”

Tanner flashed him a look that said he knew more than he’d say, and that impressed Ezra. Keeping your counsel was a rule he’d adhered to all his life, certainly, but Tanner was obviously keeping _Larabee’s_ counsel, and that took loyalty.

Ezra also suspected that Tanner had realized the truth of his disappearance, yet he, too, was keeping silent.

He just couldn’t figure either of them out, and that disturbed him.

”Reckon he was just ready to move on,” was all the young man would say. And then he did the same, walking away from the remuda line and heading toward Larabee and Wilmington. Larabee was setting out Wilmington’s bedroll and appeared ready to lay the man down himself if need be. It was surprisingly domestic of the hard-bitten man, and Ezra wondered at the story there.

”Standish?” Larabee barked, as if he had eyes in the back of his head. “You gonna stand there all day petting your horse, or you gonna get us some firewood for the night?”

Ezra bristled and was on the brink of opening his mouth when he stopped. Now was not the time to argue; this was not the place to do it. Up to now, Larabee hadn’t threatened him, but the tone in that hard voice told him that could always change. It told Ezra that he needed to keep his mouth shut and, for once, do as ordered.

He snorted at that as he walked away to gather wood.

Damn it, doing as ordered was what got him into this in the first place. If he’d just refused to follow orders at Miller’s Point thirteen years ago, he’d’ve been shot in the back by his own men and wouldn’t’ve had to worry about Larabee finishing the job.

 

Chris looked up as Nathan came over to where he and Vin were sitting next to Buck, who was half-propped up against a log. Night had long since fallen, and Josiah and the kid were snoring off by the fire. Standish had positioned himself as far from the rest of them as he could, but was rolled in his own blanket, dead to the world.

”Buck, how are you doing?” Nathan asked, worried and serious as he knelt down to check the bandages.

Nathan Jackson was a good man and Chris was abruptly proud of himself—if only for a second—for following Vin Tanner and stepping in to save him. He very nearly didn’t, and he realized with a little shock that Buck could well be dead right now if he hadn’t.

”I feel like I been sliced in half, Nathan,” Buck muttered good-naturedly. “But I’ll live.” He looked over at the kid, who snorted in his sleep and curled his arms around himself. “And so will he.”

Chris patted his friend’s shoulder. God damn Buck Wilmington. Except of course, He never would. Nope, God had blessed Buck with a sense of goodness and optimism that pissed Chris off to no end some days and made him wonder how he’d’ve ever survived the last three years without him the rest. He was damn glad Buck’d been in that little town when this all came down.

”We gotta keep them stitches clean and dry, but I reckon you’re right,” Nathan said, settling the blanket back around Buck’s chest with an easy smile.

”How’s Josiah?” Chris asked, looking over at the preacher. He was a stubborn old cuss. Heart as big as Buck’s, though.

”Being his usual idiot self,” Nathan groused. “If we take it slow, he’ll survive, too. Ain’t no way he’s making it back to town tomorrow, though.” He looked over at his sleeping friend. “Lord, the one bullet was bad enough, but that second one should’ve finished him off.”

”Would’ve finished Buck here off, for sure,” Vin said quietly.

”Man saved my life,” Buck agreed softly. “Figure I’ll be helping him with that fool chapel of his for a while in payment.”

Nathan glared at him. “Not ‘til you heal up some, Buck—and I mean that! You open up that wound again and start it bleeding, you ain’t gonna do well.”

”I’ll take care of it, Dr. Jackson,” Buck told him with a smile for the healer’s bedside manner.

Nathan looked abruptly chagrined. “I ain’t no doctor, Buck,” he said quietly. “Just don’t want no more good people dying.”

Chris nodded, thinking of Eban. Imala. Damn. His gaze roved up to rest unconsciously on Ezra Standish’s sleeping form.

”You check Ezra out?” Vin asked, as if he’d caught the direction of Chris’s gaze. Which he probably had. “Make sure he didn’t get roughed up none up there on the bluff?” There was an edge to Tanner’s voice, and Chris knew suddenly that Vin had figured out Ezra’s disappearance, too. Chris just hoped the others didn’t as well.

Nathan shook his head. “Checked his shoulder yesterday, seemed like he was doing fine. Why? He say something?” He shook his head. “Don’t seem like he’s too keen on asking for my help, if you get my meaning.”

Buck snorted lightly. “Ain’t exactly the tolerant type, is he?”

Chris grinned. No, Standish was a Southerner, for damn sure. Hadn’t endeared himself to any of them with that dismissal of Nathan back in the saloon.

Nathan got a thoughtful look on his face. “I ain’t sure it’s all that,” he said after a time. “Reckon he ain’t been in many positions to ask for help, being who he is.”

Chris nodded. Probably hadn’t had many people ask _him_ for help, neither.

”Wonder what happened to him up there, though,” Buck said, causing Chris’s stomach to tighten a bit at the question. “Asked him where he got to and all he’d say was he was ‘unavoidably delayed.’” He looked at Chris. “You talked to him. Where was he?”

Chris shrugged, feeling Vin on alert beside him. “Reckon he was unavoidably delayed.”

Buck nodded, trusting Chris as always and letting it go. “Saved our asses, whatever happened, didn’t he?”

”He did at that—thought he fucked it up good for a minute there, though.” Chris chuckled, flexing his raw hand. If he hadn’t gotten free right at that moment...

Nathan sighed. “Kind of surprised he’d turn on his own like that,” he said quietly, like maybe it was a reason to distrust him now. He shook his head quickly though. “Reckon he must be able to see the right of things enough of the time to give him the benefit of the doubt for now.”

Chris wasn’t sure at all that those were Ezra’s people. He might be prejudiced, but not so much that he’d hesitated to protect people Anderson’s men barely saw as human. No, maybe not Ezra’s people at all. Remembering the look in those green eyes when Chris brought him in on the deal, Chris wondered if maybe Ezra wasn’t still looking for _his_ people.

Vin picked up on his unspoken thought in a way that frankly spooked him. Was like he knew him better than Buck. Hell, damn near better than himself.

”Kind of wonder why he stuck around so long,” Vin said quietly. “Seems like he’d’ve left once he knew there weren’t no money coming his way.”

Chris grunted, keeping his counsel and silently thanking Vin for keeping his. “Reckon he’s got his reasons.”

Truth was, Chris didn’t have any idea what those reasons might be. Just a feeling. There was a look to Ezra when he met Chris eye-to-eye after running out on them. He could’ve kept running… but it was clear in his eyes that he couldn’t’ve lived with it. It was a regret Chris himself had almost had a couple of times in the war, and he felt a… sympathy, he guessed he’d call it.

Vin grinned in the darkness. “Reckon we all do,” he said.

”Damned if I know what they are,” Buck chuckled in response, eyes closed.

”Time we all got some sleep,” Chris said curtly, tossing the remains of his coffee into the fire. “It’s gonna take a while to get Buck and Josiah going in the morning and I want to make a few miles tomorrow.”

Buck snorted, half asleep without trying. “Hell, it’s going to take more to get Standish going. Man do like his sleep.” His breathing evened out immediately, and Chris shared a smile with Vin and Nathan as they went off to bed down.

He looked over at Standish’s bedroll once the others fell to snoring. On the way to the village, and those days before the attack, Standish had given every show of being reluctant to ever leave his bedroll, but Chris’d seen him sit bolt upright out of his sleep more than once since they sent Anderson to Hell. “Ain’t sure you’re liking your sleep much these days,” he murmured, putting his arms behind his head and staring into the sky.

He didn’t have it in him to say it served Standish right.

 

 

> ”Colonel, they’re innocent women and children!”
> 
> Garrity looked like he was going to be sick, and Ezra was sure he would be close behind. They looked down on Miller’s Point from the hill above: a ragtag town, now, nestled between the North and the South and half-ravaged by the war. Ezra stood beside his captain and tried not to look into the colonel’s glittering eyes.
> 
> Colonel Markerson had been severely injured in Tennessee and by the time they made it here to Virginia, they’d been sent a replacement. Markerson had been fair and compassionate, to a point, but Farrar was harder than diamonds and a fair shade crazy. Ezra had taken to praying each dawn that they’d live the day, given the man’s penchant for throwing them into impossible fights.
> 
> But training their cannons on Miller’s Point wasn’t impossible, except from a moral point of view. It was simply murder.
> 
> ”Their men have seen fit to rape _our_ women—kill _our_ children.” Farrar sounded terrifyingly logical about the whole thing. “They are not innocents, Captain,” he said coldly, Carolina accent thick in the cold morning. “They are collaborators.”
> 
> ”But sir, we can’t just fire into an unarmed town!” Garrity stood up for himself, and Ezra felt a burst of pride in him—
> 
> Which turned to shock and horror when Colonel Farrar calmly shot him.
> 
> Pushing Garrity’s body to the side with his foot, Farrar advanced on Ezra and his fellow powdermen. “I want a firing solution on the church, to begin with.” As if nothing had happened. “Then I believe destroying the town hall, to impede them gathering to fight us.” As if he hadn’t just killed one of his own men.
> 
> His imperious stare shook Ezra out of what could have been a fatal daze, given Garrity’s fate.
> 
> ”Can you do that for me, Lieutenant Standish?”
> 
> Ezra froze, unsure how to answer. He… He couldn’t fire on innocent children, but maybe…
> 
> ”Yes, sir,” he said meekly, mind running fast. “We’ll need to fire a few test shots to get the proper elevation.”
> 
> Hopefully enough test shots to empty the town before the real carnage could start. He could feel Harris’s glare boring into the back of him and knew he’d have to be at least passingly accurate from the beginning. Harris would kill those people in a heartbeat and that was the main reason why Garrity had made _Ezra_ his lieutenant.
> 
> ”Very good,” Farrar said coolly. “Harris, take Group B and prepare for ground assault once the initial salvo has been completed.
> 
> Ezra cursed under his breath and turned to Jameson. “15 degrees up, side north, 12 degrees,” he said quietly. That should hit just to the north of the houses at the edge of town, close enough to the church to allay suspicion, far enough to give people a chance to run.
> 
> ”Fire when ready, Lieutenant.” Farrar stood proud, waiting on the destruction.
> 
> Ezra closed his eyes.
> 
> ”Fire!”

 

Chris was still awake when Standish bolted out of his sleep, breathing hard. He watched as the man fought his way out of his bedroll and sat with his knees up and hands over his face for a full minute before cursing quietly and rising to head toward the nearby creek.

Chris considered following him. Standish wasn’t one he’d normally trust—hell, he wasn’t even a man he’d normally _like_ —but the young man was haunted by something. Chris’d seen soldiers with that same bleak look. He’d _been_ a soldier with that bleak look, more than once. Standish looked too young to have been in the war, but he clearly had something in his past that was just as bad.

He wouldn’t welcome the intrusion, though, Chris was sure. And they were parting company when they got back to Four Corners anyway. Chris really had no idea why he was so bothered by it.

Except that there’d been something about the seven of them, working together.

For a while, he’d felt good. Something he rarely got to feel anymore.

He rose, aching a little, and headed for a tree to relieve himself—not the nearest, but one that was conveniently close to the trail Ezra had taken.

 

Ezra slapped more water on his face, fighting for the control he was so famous for. The sound of the cannon roared in his ears, driving him as mad as Anderson for a moment before he recovered himself. Most of the people in Miller’s Point and the Seminole village lived, he reminded himself. Most of them _lived_.

He didn’t know which was worse, though; the thirteen women and old men Group B had reported killed in Miller’s Point—too many nameless corpses he’d never known who had haunted his dreams for a decade—or Eban and the young woman whose name meant “Wild Flower” and the rest of the people he’d shared at least a meal with.

People he’d left to die.

The moment came back to him, clear and sharp: The view from the top of the bluff, looking down on a town that no sane man would target, the plumes of smoke, the roar of flying iron… He’d run because he couldn’t see it again.

He’d come back because he couldn’t stop seeing it.

”Damn it, Ezra,” he whispered harshly in the darkness. “Get a hold of yourself.”

It was over. Done. The people at Miller’s Point had died at Harrison’s hands—Ezra’s cannon had shot true for him, missing the civilians five times before Farrar backhanded him hard enough to have him seeing stars and had another man aim and fire. He’d cursed Ezra’s incompetence for the next week, blaming him for the “failure” of the mission.

Ezra and two of his fellow cannoniers had seen it as anything but. They’d gotten “separated” from their regiment in the next fair-sized battle and he’d ended up under Thackeray’s command for the rest of his time in uniform.

Imala, though. And Eban... They’d still be alive if not for him. Their blood—

A sound behind him had him spinning, the Derringer he slept with up his sleeve dropping into his hand.

Chris Larabee stepped into the pool of light the moon made through the trees. Ezra took a steadying breath and stowed his pistol.

”Mr. Larabee,” he greeted the man quietly. “What are you doing up so late at night?”

Larabee shrugged, advancing on the creek and crouching down beside Ezra, cupping a handful of water. “Can’t sleep. Reckon I’d’ve felt better if we posted a guard.”

Ezra was just as glad they hadn’t.

”What about you?”

Ezra grinned, his poker face secure enough for the moonlight. “I awoke to relieve myself.” He took a drink of the creek himself, fighting a grimace at the dusty taste of the slow-moving water. “Lord, that’s awful,” he griped. “At least it slakes your thirst.”

Larabee spat. “Barely.”

They crouched there silent for a long moment before Larabee rose.

”Wouldn’t’ve ended much different if you’d stayed,” he said quietly, the words seeming to tighten the cinch around Ezra’s chest. “Anderson probably would’ve just killed you and then we’d all be dead.”

Ezra saw Imala in his mind’s eye and shuddered. ”Were you in the war, Mr. Larabee?” he asked quietly, looking up for the first time.

Larabee nodded but didn’t meet his eyes.

”Did you ever get to the end of a battle and wonder why those who lived lived—why God decided that good men should die while others flourished?”

”Every one,” Larabee replied. There was a touch of shock to his voice and Ezra wondered if the man had assumed him too young to have fought the damned, awful thing. He had been—they all had.

”Our sides weren’t so unalike,” Ezra murmured. “Evil on both sides.”

Larabee put a hand on his shoulder for a brief second. “Good, too.”

”Let triumph the ‘better angels of our nature,’ eh, Mr. Larabee?” The hand was gone, but Ezra felt the benediction still.

”Looks to me like they did,” Larabee said, walking back into the trees, toward camp. “Just took a little time, is all.”

Ezra sat on the creek’s edge until the predawn started, dark blue and clear.

Funny. He hadn’t been sure he had any better angels left after all these years.

Perhaps these were just the men to lead him to them.

* * * * * * *  
The End

**Author's Note:**

> The end of Abraham Lincoln's first inaugural address reads as follows:
> 
> "We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."


End file.
